


You're not eating again

by simplyoverstated



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anorexia, Anorexic!John, Discovery, EDNOS, Eating Disorder, mental health
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-04-26 22:31:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14411907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyoverstated/pseuds/simplyoverstated
Summary: John's eating disorder resurfaces, and Sherlock notices.





	1. Bored

 

Sherlock sighed. For the first time in weeks he didn’t have a case, and he was _bored._ He had been up all night being bored, running ultimately pointless experiments and searching online for any murders he might have missed. Nothing.

He shut his laptop in frustration, and looked around. There sat John on his own laptop, sipping a mug of tea. 

“Oh, I didn’t know you were home.” Sherlock said disinterestedly.

John rolled his eyes. “I’ve been sitting here for the last two hours. You really didn’t hear me come in?”

Sherlock did not answer. He was thinking, hard. For the first time in weeks he looked at John, really looked at him. Usually it wasn’t necessary, because things rarely changed when it came to John. He had his routine, and he stuck to it. Nothing titillating about the occasional new shirt or date with a girl.

But there was something else that he had not seen for a very long time _. Oh dear._

“Would you stop looking at me like that?” Again, Sherlock remained silent, gazing intently at John until the doctor squirmed uncomfortably and looked back down at his laptop, muttering something about _staring like a weirdo_ and _can’t be normal just once._ Sherlock ignored him. He was compiling a list. A list of evidence, evidence that John was not alright.

Dark circles under the eyes

Sunken cheeks

Baggy clothes

Difficulty concentrating (he had read the same sentence multiple times in a row since Sherlock had been watching him)

Loose wristwatch

Sherlock frowned. Was it just his desperation for a puzzle, or was something seriously wrong with John? He would need to look into this further.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Sherlock eyed John across the table. They were sitting down for a proper meal for the first time in months, and something was up. John wasn’t eating. That was a problem.

“John.”

John started, looking around as though he had forgotten Sherlock was there. “Yes?”

“You’re not eating.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock wasn’t going to legitimize John’s feigned stupidity with an answer. He simply looked at him knowingly until the shorter man looked away from his gaze, embarrassed.

“Well, I suppose I’m not as hungry as I - ”

“Don’t lie, John. It’s a waste of my time and yours.” John looked very surprised at this, and put his fork down on the table.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t beg, it doesn’t suit you. You’re not eating again, and I want to know why.”

“Wh – What are you talking about?” John looked panicked and guilty, like a child caught stealing candy. Very obvious. Sherlock sighed. He was going to have to spell it out.

“You’ve lost approximately 13 pounds in the last two weeks, a strikingly unhealthy rate of weight loss for someone your size, which I’m sure you know judging by the medical degree hanging on your office wall. You avoid eating in public or in front of me, you’re tired all the time and you have trouble concentrating. These are all symptoms of which, I’m sure, you were well aware before I said a word. So stop acting stupid and tell me _why_ you’ve stopped eating this time.”

John looked shocked, and a bit miffed, but he seemed to have given up on playing dumb. Finally.

“I – well, I—” He sputtered, then frowned. “Hang on, what do you mean ‘this time’?”

“When we met you were struggling with food as well. I helped you then, and I can help you now.”

“You what? How did you…oh nevermind. Yes, I suppose this is a recurring issue, but it’s not like I have an eating disorder or –“

“I disagree. I think that’s exactly what you have.”

“No I don’t, I just…I just get stressed and…don’t feel like -”

“Don’t feel like keeping yourself alive?”             

John looked away. “That’s not what I –“

“Oh spare me.” Sherlock interrupted, standing up and pacing impatiently. “You can deny it seven ways till Sunday but it doesn’t matter what you say because your actions say otherwise.” He turned to look directly at his friend, his expression serious. “You have a problem John, and I can help you.” John was silent for a long while, to the point where even Sherlock was starting to feel uncomfortable. Then, to his great surprise, John suddenly pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. He didn’t look upset or angry; instead he looked…sad.

“You can’t help me Sherlock. You are…so clever. I should have known you would see. But you can’t fix this.” And he walked away purposefully, up the stairs to his room. For the first time, Sherlock was without words.

 

* * *

 

It was all well and good for Sherlock to play his observation game and spout facts. He didn’t live with the guilt, the voice in his head telling him he was worthless and that nothing mattered. He didn’t go to bed hoping he would die in his sleep and wake up disappointed that he was still breathing. He didn’t really know.

John didn’t have the energy to deny anymore. The cat was out of the bag, and he wasn’t seventeen anymore. His mother couldn’t pack his bags and send him to some institution. Sure, Sherlock could make his life a living hell if he wanted to, but if John was set on slowly killing himself there wasn’t anything anyone could do anymore. There was a strange sort of freedom in knowing that.

He stood in his tiny bedroom, standing before the full-length mirror hanging from the door, not seeing. 13 pounds? It couldn't possibly be that much. He knew it was, of course, exactly 13 pounds, because the scale said so, whatever that meant anymore. But he didn't believe that Sherlock could see the change in John. He looked the same, if not larger, than he had been. And nowhere near starvation. Not even close. 

If he were to die from this, the way he wanted to, it would have to be a lot more than that. And it would be tricky with Sherlock in the know about what he was up to. 

As a soldier, John had always been up for a challenge. Why should civilian life be any different? Even if the task at hand was a slow suicide. Even if the challenger was his best friend. 


	2. Fix you

“I’ve gotten all I can get from observation, John. I need you to tell me what’s going through your head.”

John scoffed, looking bemusedly across at Sherlock, who sat frowning with his hands steepled together. They had been sitting in silence for over an hour before Sherlock spoke, but John was not surprised. He had been waiting for the confrontation ever since Sherlock deduced him at dinner the other day.

He turned to face the detective head on. “What, you can’t read my mind? You can’t look at the way my collar is folded and tell why I want to – I mean, why I…”

“Why you want to die, John. You can say it.”

John raised his head slowly to meet Sherlock’s steady gaze. For a while they just looked at each other in a weird, twisted game of emotional chicken. Should he deny it? John really had nothing to lose here, and he wasn’t afraid of hurting Sherlock with the harsh truth. Sherlock thrived on the truth. So, finally, John spoke.

“I just don’t see the point.”

He swallowed back the rising panic and the prickling of tears. He hadn’t anticipated this would be quite so hard. He continued “I mean, sometimes I think maybe I should eat, or go outside, or pick up a book. But I can’t make myself do it. I just don’t have the energy anymore, Sherlock. It’s not worth it anymore.”

“Not worth it. Not even for me?” John was taken aback. He hadn’t expected this.

“What do you mean?”

“What I _mean_ , John, is that even with all those distractions in that silly little head of yours I would have expected you to consider that what you’re doing might have some impact on your…your flatmate.”

John did not miss the pregnant pause where one might have inserted the word ‘friend’, but he ignored that, focusing instead on the meaning behind Sherlock’s words. He let out a manic sort of laugh.

“Oho ho! Oh, I see. You think that all of this,” he motioned towards the kitchen, and then to himself, “is _your_  problem, hmm? That it’s all about you, like everything bloody well is, right? And that it’s your right to fix it, to fix _me?_ ” Sherlock looked at him with confusion, clearly not understanding why John was so upset.

“Well, I mean,” he looked into John’s eyes curiously, as though he could read the answer to what he was supposed to have said there. “I mean, I don’t really know what caused you to…starve yourself, or what have you, but I do intend to fix it, yes.”

John heard a slight (very slight) catch in the detective’s voice when he said the phrase ‘starve yourself’, and he felt a stab of guilt. He was always forgetting that Sherlock, though excellent at diverting attention, actually did have a heart. He cared for John, in his own way, and John was pushing him away, like he always did when people showed concern for his wellbeing. Why did he always do that?

John took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “Sherlock…I know you only want to help. But this is something I need to do for myself.” _Or not do._

Sherlock looked down, letting out a heavy breath. John didn’t have to be a detective to discern his friend’s disappointment. He couldn’t stand disappointing Sherlock. Why?

He continued. “However,”

Sherlock looked back up at him quickly,

“It’s…nice. To know, you know, that someone cares.” What was he saying? Why was he giving Sherlock hope? “And, maybe – _maybe_ – I could try. To eat, I mean. For the job, you know. To catch murderers.”

He swallowed. It wasn’t what he wanted at all. Was he thinking he could fool Sherlock for longer than a few days? Could he make his friend think he was eating when he had no intention of doing so? “And, maybe, if you were to, I don’ t know, remind me once in a while…”

Sherlock smiled, and John could have sworn he almost looked human in that moment. It was a bit disconcerting if he was being honest, and another stab of guilt hit him.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock reached out as though to take John’s hand, but seemed to think better of it, ending up patting him awkwardly on the shoulder instead. John couldn’t help but lean into the touch.

But the nice moment was over as soon as it had begun as Sherlock stood up and turned promptly on his heel, starting to pace back and forth and mumbling to himself. “I mean, I would have done it anyways, regardless of what you think you want, but it will be much simpler with your cooperation.”

John frowned, but his dismay went unnoticed. Sherlock was in work mode now, and John knew there was nothing he could say to stop those cogs from spinning.

He could do nothing to stop his world from spinning out of control, either. He never could. Sherlock was still talking, but John had stopped listening. He had a very bad feeling about this. Why had he ever let Sherlock into the world he had created? His world of starvation and self-hatred. It was _his_ world, and, like a child, he felt a jealousy at Sherlock’s presence in it. He didn’t want anyone to get hurt, but it was inevitable. One of them would lose this fight, and nobody would win.  

 

* * *

 

John was lying. _Of course_ he was lying. A suicidal person didn’t just decide they wanted to live based on one conversation. But John thinking that he had Sherlock fooled gave the detective a leg up, and he was going to take it. First things first: distraction.

The first time, when he had met John, distraction was sufficient to get the man to halt his self destruction. Something told Sherlock it would be a little more difficult this time around.

He closed his eyes, retrieving the memory. Eating at the restaurant, waiting for the taxi driver. John had eaten frantically, like a starving man. Because, of course, he _was_ starving. He hadn’t eaten in days, as far as Sherlock could deduce. Not even an apple.

Before, he had been depressed, hurting, haunted by nightmares and flashbacks of the war. Bored in his civilian life, missing the action and purpose of being a soldier.

Now… well, now he wanted to die. Why? What had changed?

_Sometimes I think maybe I should eat, or go outside, or pick up a book. But I can’t make myself do it. I just don’t have the energy anymore, Sherlock. It’s not worth it anymore._

Classic depression. Chronic, likely to result in suicidal thoughts and risky behavior. Not taking care of oneself, losing interest in things that use to be pleasurable. Usually triggered by something. 

John’s sister was back on the drink, but that had happened enough times. That couldn’t be it.

Sherlock didn’t like not having the answer. He always had the answer, especially when it concerned John. But this…there didn’t seem to be a concrete reason for John’s behavior this time. Nothing monumental had happened to trigger a relapse. It didn’t make sense.

If he couldn’t determine the cause, he couldn’t present a solution, it was as simple as that.

He didn’t like feeling helpless. He was not used to it, and when it came to John he was not always entirely rational.

 

Meanwhile, John’s weight continued to drop, the circles under his friend’s eyes grew darker, and the things that made John John simply fell away, one by one, until Sherlock could no longer recognize him.

He never got angry anymore, not even when Sherlock left a hand or two in their freezer, or blood samples in the sink. He rarely left his bedroom. He stopped going to work. And still, Sherlock was at a loss.

“Tell me how to help you, John. Please.” This tone, this…begging, was out of character for Sherlock, which might at some time have made John do a double take. Now he just stared at his tea blankly, stirring, mindlessly, never raising the mug to his lips.

“You can’t.” He said simply, and left it at that. They sat in silence. The air was stale, empty of answers. Finally, John retreated back to his room, leaving Sherlock alone with the demons they shared. He eyed the floorboard in the corner, under which lay a box, a promise of mental reprieve. No, he didn’t need that now. Later, maybe, but not now.


	3. Let Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You're skin protected me from sunbeams. Your hands made sure I'd stay intact; I let go. I let go.' - Maria Mena, Calm under the waves
> 
> or
> 
> The boys feel things

_‘I just don’t see the point.’_

That was the moment, Sherlock realized. The moment John let go of the façade. How long had he felt this way, really? Sherlock didn’t know.

_Sherlock didn’t know._ Sherlock always knew, but he hadn’t guessed, hadn’t seen. God, how could he not have seen?

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, pacing back and forth in the small flat. He kept arriving at the same conclusion, one he didn’t like, one he needed not to be true. But there it was, plain as day.

If John didn’t want to be helped, there was nothing Sherlock could do. He was powerless, helpless. He let out a low growl, suddenly angry and unsettled. He found himself facing the wall, that yellow, smiling face mocking him. He lashed out blindly with his fist, striking the wall hard. The pain felt good, it numbed and distracted him.

Again and again he struck out, feeling the plaster bend and break beneath his hands. His face was wet. When had the tears begun? Sherlock Holmes didn’t lose control like this. Yet here he was, boxing with a wall.

He went until his knuckles were bruised and bloody, then turned his back to the wall and slid down in defeat, pleasantly exhausted. The tears dried on his cheeks, and powdered plaster mixed with the blood on his hands.

He felt like a child again, losing control, crying for his mummy. He wiped his hands across his face angrily, took a couple deep breaths, and pushed himself up. Again, he glanced towards the floorboards in the corner. Not yet. Not yet.

 

* * *

 

It had been a long day for John. He went to work for the first time in a long time, only because Sarah had threatened him with termination if he missed another day. It was easier to go than to argue, but after 8 hours of patients and nurses and receptionists eyeing him and asking him questions he was ready to sleep for days.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the flat was the wall. It was dented and punctured, the wallpaper torn and hanging in places. Without really thinking, he reached up slowly and placed his closed fist against one of the marks. It fit. Someone had punched the living daylights out of the wall, and he knew perfectly well who.

It made him very sad to imagine Sherlock like that, and even sadder to know that the way he, John, had been declining lately was likely the reason. He ran his fingers gently over the dented plaster and marks of dried blood, imagining he could feel the warmth from Sherlock’s hands there.

A pressure was welling up in his chest, just below his throat. He swallowed with difficulty, blinking several times, feeling the pricks of hot tears in his eyes.

It had been so long since he had felt, since he had cried, or laughed, or yelled, or anything. Now, in the presence of his own overwhelming emotion, he realized how truly empty he had really been all these long months.

He wiped a tear from his cheek and held it up, staring. It was warm. He had forgotten his body could produce warmth. He let out a strange, strangled sort of laugh, and more tears fell. He sounded insane, he knew.

“John.” He didn’t jump, or even turn around at the deep voice. He just kept laughing and crying, even more hysterically now, leaning his forehead against the wall, because of _course_ Sherlock was there to see him at his most vulnerable. He was always just _there_.

Sherlock stepped forward cautiously. “John, are you – ?”

But John, suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge to be close to something, to some _one,_ turned unexpectedly and closed the gap between them, leaning his head on Sherlock’s chest, still emitting crazy laugh/sobs and clutching at Sherlock’s coat.

He didn’t even know why he was so distraught at this point. It was like everything came crashing down at once, and he felt so raw and exposed these days that he couldn’t protect himself from the downpour.

It was Sherlock’s pain, and his own; the hole inside him that he could not fill, the exhaustion in his bones, the way he looked and felt and _existed._ It was the obvious pain and discomfort he was causing Sherlock, his friend, and his secret wish that Sherlock would just _go away_ so he could die in peace and no one would care. And it was knowing that Sherlock would not go away, and that John could not change, could never get better.

To John’s surprise, Sherlock did not pull away, nor did he speak. He simply lifted his hands to John’s shoulders – a bit awkwardly, but gently all the same – and held them there. His head bent over John’s, and John could feel the tickle of Sherlock’s curls on his temples and the tops of his ears.

They had never been this close. John had not been this close to anyone in a very long time.

They stood like that for what felt like hours, Sherlock’s arms now wrapped tightly around John and John still clutching Sherlock’s coat in his fists. His crying had died down, but he didn’t want to let go just yet.

Instead he mumbled into Sherlock’s chest. “Mrs. Hudson’s going to kill you, you know.”

Sherlock raised his head slightly. “What? Why?”

“You punched holes in her wall.” John couldn’t see Sherlock’s face, but he imagined that smirk he knew all too well tugging the corner of the detective’s lips.

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

John’s laugh was muffled by Sherlock’s jacket, and Sherlock pulled John a little bit closer to him in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection.

After the laughter died away, Sherlock’s tone became serious once more. “John?”

“Yes?”

“I missed you.”

John said nothing. Already the numbness was creeping back into his chest. In answer, he buried his face deeper into Sherlock’s chest, and breathed in his smell. He missed himself, too. He just didn’t know how to go back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like this one, and I'm going to try to update it at least every couple weeks from now on!


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